All Our Scattered Leaves (part 3/6)
by Mercutio of Naboo
Summary: In the first days of the Empire, a Jedi Master and his padawan flee from destruction. One hundred years later, on a backwater planet, a certain old man unexpectedly comes across a young would-be Jedi.


Disclaimer: The Star Wars universe belongs to George Lucas. I merely   
play with it when he's not looking.  
  
  
All Our Scattered Leaves  
*** *** ********* ******  
  
Part Three: In the first days of the Empire...  
  
The Temple burned with a terrible, majestic beauty. Shadows danced   
behind their light, dark puppets acting out a tragedy of propaganda   
and lies. Through the shadows fled the last survivors of the Jedi   
Order, chased by tales of a masked, black-clad figure that had cut   
down the Council one by one. Crowds gathered to watch the fire, any   
sympathy for its victims silenced by fear or false belief. No voices   
were raised in protest as the survivors were marched away under guard.  
  
A young rodian stood among the observers, watching the blaze with   
inscrutable black eyes. She ignored the tall human that stood beside   
her, and when a troop of white-armored guards moved in to break up the   
crowd the two departed in opposite directions. They met again later,   
however, in the safety of an abandoned store-room.  
  
"What do we do, Master?" The rodian crept close to the human,   
seeking the comfort of his presence.  
  
"We do not run."  
  
"We don't?"  
  
"No. Running attracts attention. We walk."  
  
"But we are going to run away, even if we walk?"  
  
"We must leave, padawan. The Jedi Order is dead. We are among the last   
of the Jedi. We must carry our knowledge to safety, and hope that one   
day we can return."  
  
"So where will we go?"  
  
The Jedi Master placed a hand on the rodian's shoulder. "It is time   
for us to part company, my padawan. There is little love for non-  
humans in the Core Worlds these days. We would attract too much   
attention if we travelled together."  
  
"Master?" The rodian stared up into the human's face, aghast. "What   
would I do without you, Master? I'm not ready to leave you!"  
  
"If the things we have seen are not Trial enough, I can think of no   
test that would prove your worth. There is no anger or hatred in your   
heart, padawan."  
  
"I'm not angry, Master, only sad."  
  
"There are not enough tears to cleans the blood that has been spilled   
these last days. The Force has been unbalanced. There is peace no   
longer."  
  
"Do you have to talk in riddles all the time, Master?" The criticism  
was automatic, born of the many months they had spent together.  
  
"You are a Jedi, my friend. Carry the Light with you always and keep   
hope alive. There are other rodians leaving on a freighter called the   
'Vicsk Corona' at twenty-one hundred. You need to meet with the First   
Mate, Heesa, at the Two Suns Cantina half a timepart before it   
departs. You will be safer with them than with me. Just remember to   
keep your lightsaber with you and watch your temper."  
  
"And you?"  
  
"I have friends I will go to. Now we must be gone. The Force be with   
you, Jedi Reeshk."  
  
"And with you, Master Inawei."  
  
In defiance of the Creed the two embraced with visible emotion, a  
farewell both knew might have to last them a lifetime. Then they broke  
apart and joined the other fugitives: leaves scattered before the dark  
winds of change.  
  
******  
  
One hundred years later...  
  
Bayashi was a windswept world, a planet with plains of rock and   
grasses so vast that local legend claimed those who could look far   
enough into the distance would see themselves. The climate of the   
planet was a fickle creature, alternating between torrential rain and   
hazy days of shimmering heat, punctuated by dry storms that kept   
everything but the grasslands in a permanent coating of soft pink-grey   
dust. The soil was thin and poor, and the rocks held few minerals   
worth extracting. The planet's wealth lay in its wide, untouched   
wilderness and in the animals that roamed across them.   
  
The small world had attracted a mixed population of species. Some had   
come to enjoy the spiritual calm of the open spaces. Some had come to   
hunt game and had ended up staying, trading exotic pelts with the few   
offworlders that came by. Some had reason to stay well beyond the   
borders of the New Republic, and were living on Bayashi in semi-  
permanent exile. Most clustered into one of the handful of permanent   
townships that had sprung up on the plains. A few adopted the nomadic   
lifestyle of the natives, roving across the plains with mobile tent   
cities.  
  
Everybody around Bayashi Starport knew Old Man Lars. It felt as if   
he'd been there forever, although there were plenty who could remember   
his arrival if they actually thought about it. He'd been co-pilot on a   
decrepit old trader, a good match for an old man until the captain   
decided she wanted a younger crewman. It was five years since old Lars   
had been left standing on the plascrete when his ship left without   
him. Somehow he'd since managed to become part of the scenery.  
  
Old Man Lars would occasionally do a little work around the port to   
earn a few credits for his keep, but his needs were simple and few.   
The spaceport supervisor deliberately failed to notice that a little-  
used office at the back of the records room now held a low bed and a   
storage box. Old Lars seldom ventured away from the spaceport   
compound, except when he needed to purchase supplies. Most of the old   
man's time was spent sitting quietly near the port entrance, watching   
the ships or staring at the clouds that swept the skies above the   
rolling grasslands.  
  
Some said that he always seemed sad. Perhaps he was a little touched,   
speaking seldom and often spending long hours in a motionless trance.   
Nevertheless, he was a sweet and kindly person who liked to listen to   
those who needed to talk. Sometimes the locals would send him food or   
clothing. His smile and the simple pleasure he showed at the gift was   
all the thanks they needed.  
  
The children would have teased him relentlessly, but he never reacted   
any way other than to smile and nod. In the end the youngsters mostly   
gave up their name-calling, and some would even come to him for   
comfort when they felt in need of a friend. The rougher element would   
shout and throw stones, although old Lars did not seem to notice and   
the stones always seemed to miss. The worst among these were the   
rodian youths. They were of a violent species, with a culture that saw   
more worth in martial prowess than in gentleness. Despite their best   
efforts to get a response from Lars, however, the old man peacefully   
ignored them, and gradually their visits became less frequent.  
  
******  
  
There was a skittering of stone on plascrete as a missile failed to   
make contact with Old Man Lars, and skated to a stop beside him. The   
rodians were back, and were looking for trouble. The old man was   
seated cross-legged on the plascrete in his oil-stained coveralls, his   
back towards his would-be attackers. He appeared not to have noticed   
the potential danger, and continued in his serene contemplation of the   
grasslands beyond the spaceport fencing. A few of the port workers saw   
the youths gathering at the edge of the compound and started to move   
in that direction. Whether old Lars knew it or not, he had many   
friends who looked out for him when they could.  
  
This time they had no need to intervene, as it seemed the rodians   
themselves were in disagreement about taunting the old man.  
  
"Leave him alone, Greetak. He's got a right to live in peace, just   
like everyone else." It was one of the younger rodians who spoke.   
Normally the youngsters lived in awe of their elders, seldom daring to   
contradict and often put in their place. This one spoke as if he   
expected to be listened to.  
  
"Peace! Ha! Peace doesn't make good fighters." Greetak's words were   
aggressive, but he seemed wary of the outspoken youngster.  
  
"We should fight to defend the peace, not just for the sake of   
fighting." This argument, from a rodian, was often enough to earn the   
speaker a beating from his peers. The youngster looked ready to meet   
any such response, but it wasn't forthcoming. Greetak eyed him, then   
backed off.  
  
"Eflik, Reeshto! You and your stupid Jedi nonsense. Come on, guys,   
Mister Virtuous here isn't going to let us have any fun. Are we   
allowed to play the sims instead, Oh Perfect One?" Bickering and   
teasing, the group of youths moved away. They were unaware that Old   
Man Lars had turned around, and was now watching them with curiously   
intent blue eyes.  
  
"A Jedi? Here?"  



End file.
